


peanut butter mishaps

by mariewinter



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Gen, charlotte cooking peanut butter cookies, i don't know why i wrote this in the middle of the night but i did, mazikeen enjoying those peanut butter cookies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-12 01:41:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,171
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9050119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mariewinter/pseuds/mariewinter
Summary: The first time Charlotte bakes peanut butter cookies, it's Mazikeen who tries them first.





	

**Author's Note:**

> merry christmas i'm charlotte trash

The first time Charlotte bakes peanut butter cookies, it's Mazikeen who tries them first.

It's long, long after the chocolate chip cookie disaster, and even the series of infamous turkey disasters. (She had always known that Thanksgiving was a day for _giving thanks,_ but not that you had to shove things into turkey carcasses with your _bare hands._ The first turkey had been burnt, through and through; the second had been burnt on the outside and raw on the inside, somehow, and the third turkey had been edible but not exactly _enjoyable._ ) She knows now how to set the oven at just the right temperature, and even how to press the tines of a fork into the batter to give it that odd little pattern that humans seem to like on their peanut butter cookies so much.

All three batches get taste-tested by Mazikeen. The first, she spits out – _at_ Charlotte – and calls a 'disgusting gooey mess'. She also says something about projectile vomiting before storming out.

Charlotte calls her back in for the second batch, knowing that if she had to suffer being _babysat_ by the woman who once _tortured her,_ Mazikeen would have to suffer just as much to make up for it. The kitchen smells heavily of smoke then, and as she pushes the windows open and turns the fans on to air the room out, she listens to the sound of Mazikeen spitting – and gagging, like the dramatic little twit that she is – into the garbage can. “What did you put _in_ these? Salt and piss?”

Charlotte's eyebrows furrow. “The recipe said eleven teaspoons of salt,” she protests, gesturing wildly to the laptop set aside on the counter.

The demon goes to look. “...Charlotte?”

“Yes?” Charlotte huffs, tossing those _stupid_ oven mitts – stained with peanut butter – onto the counter.

“...One and a half. It says _one and a half teaspoons of salt,_ you moron.”

Charlotte swallows, and then straightens up with a sharp exhale. “ _Well._ That makes more sense.”

Mazikeen throws her hands up, because of course she does – ever the dramatic little creature, her son's pet. She storms out of the kitchen just like the first time around, calling over her shoulder as she does so, “Less salt this time! And don't leave them in for thirty minutes, idiot!”

Charlotte grinds her teeth, staring at the oven. This device will not defeat her. The computer and the toaster devices had not defeated her, either, and this _oven_ – oh, she has long since been an enemy of it, and it of her; but she had managed to make those cheesy noodles again and again until they were not all crispy and burnt at the top and liquid cheese at the bottom.

She will do that with the cookies, too.

She will _win._

Five minutes pass. “...Mazikeen, I ran out of peanut butter. What do I do? Is there some kind of— _substitute?_ ”

“YEAH. IT'S CALLED GO BUY SOME MORE!”

“There's no need to _yell!_ ”

“SHUT UP!”

The third batch is perfect. (The third batch is always perfect: it was perfect with the cheesy noodles, with the turkey, with the grilled chickens no one ever talks about because of how she'd managed to set the first one on fire; _honestly,_ it isn't _her_ fault that chickens were somehow so flammable). She knows it's perfect not only because the third batches are always perfect, but also because of how Mazikeen reacts to it. If she wants a true, honest opinion on something, the first person she'll think of is this _horrible_ little demon.

She'd put the right amount of salt in, had kept them in the oven for only fifteen minutes just like the recipe said, and hadn't forgotten the little fork trick.

“Mazikeen,” Charlotte calls, and lets three seconds pass knowing that the little cretin is ignoring her. Then she shouts, louder, “ _Mazikeen!_ ”

The demon enters the kitchen; _stomps,_ really, grumbling and groaning under her breath. Before she can finish calling Charlotte a bitch, Charlotte shoves the plate of cookies at her and then folds her arms. “Try,” she demands, eyes narrowed.

The woman rolls her eyes so hard that Charlotte is almost— _almost_ —impressed by its melodramatic flair, and then shoves a cookie unceremoniously into her mouth. She chews, loudly, crumbs spilling past the corners of her lips, and the more she chews the more the angrily unhappy look fades from her face, and _that_ is when Charlotte knows she's won.

She'll take her small victories. Here, on Earth, it's all she'll get; a smile from Lucifer, or Amenadiel's hand on her shoulder, or Mazikeen _not_ trying to tear her limb from limb. All she can do is settle for those victories, minuscule as they are, and never long-lasting; and hope that, one day, there will be more of it—better, more frequent, anything at all that would tell her that things were changing for the better instead of getting worse or staying, stagnant, in their present state—inbetween, still, like a pendulum that had stopped swinging this way and that.

A very fragile pendulum.

Mazikeen swallows. She says nothing at all, but she reaches for a second cookie, and Charlotte beams from ear to ear. The demon shoots her a glare, eyes full of that fiery hatred Charlotte is so used to.

“They're not as awful as everything else you make, I guess,” Mazikeen mutters, and then skulks from the kitchen like a child.

Charlotte could _cheer;_ but she just takes a cookie for herself, as a little reward (she deserves it, after all), and slides up to sit on the edge of the counter. Her legs dangle from the edge, and as she nibbles at the corner of the cookie (it isn't as round as she'd like, she'll have to perfect that), she feels inexplicably light and airy in a way that she can't explain.

After a moment, she remembers that feeling.

Happiness.

She has every right to be happy, Charlotte assures herself – she's finally beaten The Oven.

A thought occurs to her, and she hurriedly scrambles for her cellphone, dialing in the familiar number she knows so well. It takes her seven tries, but only because the buttons on this stupid, ridiculously tiny device are so small.

“Lucifer! Hello? Yes? It's me. Your mother. Lucifer, are you th—oh, no, you aren't in the middle of _something_ with the Brittanies, are you? It's _noon,_ how should I have known—no, Lucifer, I didn't _just_ call you to scold you on your sexual habits. I baked cookies! Yes, Lucifer—no, I didn't burn them this time. Mazikeen even said that they weren't as awful as everything else I usually make, which is a _glowing_ compliment from her—what? But Lucifer, this is a special occasion. Surely you can give up the Brittanies for a few hours? There's four now? Well, _honestly—_ do they take precedent over your _mother?_ Lucifer? Hello? Lucifer—Mazikeen! This phone stopped working! ...What do you mean he _hung up_ on me?”


End file.
